


A (Grand) Night Out (or In)

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [55]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 08:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9171136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Foyle is dozing when the doorbell rings.





	

Foyle is dozing when the doorbell rings and, for a minute, he cannot think what the noise is. Then he hears Paul’s step and Sam’s cheerful voice -- along with a draft of very cold air -- and the memory comes back.

He pushes himself up the armchair, shakes his head to dispel the last of his involuntary nap, and picks up his book just as Paul comes into the sitting room.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Sam says, coming in a step or so behind him.

‘Good evening, Sam.’ He replaces the bookmark and stands up, pulling his shirt straight out of habit. 

Sam smiles and steps aside to let a shorter woman with dark hair, cropped short, come into the room. She wears a coat with a thick fur collar that must have either been in storage since the '30s or cost her a pretty penny on the black market; the former seems more likely, given the style, but you never know. ‘This is Nina.’

Foyle gets a firm, cold handshake and a bright smile. ‘I’ve heard all about you from Sam.’

‘Have you indeed.’ Foyle glances at Sam who blushes slightly and makes a shuffling motion with her feet. He smiles -- Sam has certainly earned her right to complain about him in his absence, particularly since he’s sure it’s simply grousing and makes no actual difference. ‘Where are you going?’

‘There’s a new French restaurant--’

‘--and a cocktail lounge,’ Nina interjects.

Sam gives her a quelling look and goes on, ‘--so I thought we might try that.’

‘I hear it’s very good,’ Foyle says, more for something to say than anything else.

‘You -- wouldn’t like to come with us, would you, sir?’ Sam sounds tentative but genuine but Foyle notices Nina only barely suppresses rolling her eyes and pastes her smile back on.

‘Oh, no, thank you, Sam.’ Foyle looks for and sees Nina’s slight relaxation; she’s beginning to look quite satisfied with herself although he can't think why. ‘I have to be up to catch an early train in the morning.’

‘I’ll be back up at the end of the week,’ Sam says immediately.

‘It’s no trouble; come see me on Friday.’

Paul comes back in with his coat on and his gloves in one hand. ‘Ready?’

‘Absolutely!’ Nina turns to Paul with a smile of an entirely different wattage than had been turned on either Foyle or Sam. Foyle notices it almost absently, occupied with the immediate social details of reassuring Sam that he really doesn’t need her until Friday, ushering the three into the hall, handing Paul his keys, and locking up behind them. 

He doesn’t fail to notice that Nina and Paul have immediately become involved in the details of some previous conversation, picking up the threads quickly and easily between them. At least her self-satisfaction is explained: he can see why she would have every expectation of being able to catch Paul’s eye. 

He goes back into the sitting room, silent except for the dull snap of the fire and the tick of the clock and feels suddenly old. It isn’t a feeling he has often. He could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has actually considered his age when it wasn’t simply a matter of ticking a box on a form or answering a question at a doctor’s surgery. He’s been noticing it more lately now that he’s spending more time in London. There seems to be a certain energy around some of the younger men and women that brings it out -- there’s something oddly fragile about them and they never seem to want to be still. At least Sam hasn't become like that, thank heaven; she’s always herself.

He takes a deep breath; he can still smell the cloud of perfume Nina brought with her into the room. It isn’t a bad scent but there is decidedly too much of it. Well, if she wishes to try her arm with Paul, he supposes she’s welcome to her chance. He doesn’t think she’ll get very far. Thoughtfully, he adjusts the chain under his vest, tucking it more securely beneath his shirt collar; he has to remember to get silver polish. Paul’s cufflinks had been dull against the white of his shirt tonight.

He moves to put another log on the fire, banking it up well with embers and standing back as it starts to spark into flame. The clock strikes the hour and, behind him, he hears Tweed thump down off the last step of the stairs, finished with her nap on the extra blanket at the foot of the bed and ready to try and trick him into forgetting she had her dinner two hours ago.

He looks down at the book on his chair and it has a distinct lack of appeal.

‘Well,’ he says aloud to himself. ‘What shall the old man do next, then?’

* * *

Foyle doesn’t know what time it is when he hears the bedroom door creak open and Paul’s footsteps. Paul doesn’t bother to turn on the light and Foyle, half-awake, listens to the familiar sounds of him undressing. 

When Paul finally slides under the bedclothes, he brings with him a draft of chill. 

‘What have you been doing?’ Foyle mutters, sliding back along the mattress until he can feel every inch of Paul’s cold against his own warm back. ‘Standing in a snowdrift?’

Paul yawns, his breath warm and faintly wine-scented against the back of Foyle’s neck, and curls closer, sliding his arms around Foyle. ‘No. Restaurant was --’ He interrupts himself with another yawn. ‘--was cold. And that Nina doesn’t know when to stop talking.’

‘What time is it?’ Foyle wraps his own hands around Paul’s cold ones, interlacing their fingers over his own breastbone. 

‘Past one.’

‘Good Lord.’

‘It’s turned to quite the storm out.’ Paul shivers and presses himself closer and Foyle schools himself to focus on continuing to feel sleepy. ‘Not sure you’re going to be able to make that train in the morning.’

‘No? Oh, well. It won’t be the end of the earth if I don’t.’

Paul yawns again. ‘I hope Sam comes down alone next time. If all her friends are like that, I’m not sure I’d survive another.’

Foyle chuckles, squeezing Paul’s hands between his own. ‘Well, she can’t follow you here.’

‘Thank God for that.’ Paul sniffs and presses a kiss to the back of Foyle’s neck. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, the title is a _Wallace & Gromit_ joke.


End file.
